


Cecil's Night Vale

by shikaku28



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Use, F/F, I'll tell you everything in the notes, M/M, Multi, Other, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-02-28 10:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18754390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shikaku28/pseuds/shikaku28
Summary: A drug called Bloodstone has been known to cause severe hallucinations, dulled responses to fear or pain, overactive stimulus to the senses, and in many cases heavy memory loss. But it would certainly make for a stunning news show. Which is probably why they keep letting Cecil back in front of the microphone every month.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay 100% Self indulgent and definitely all kinds of canon divergent will add more tags later so as not to spoil anything because I actually have something planned also I'll try not to spoil big plot things that happen in future episodes based on the current episode in the fic (So I'm not gonna reference anything past the pilot episode in the first chapter except the fact that Cecil and Carlos get together bc like, c'mon) 
> 
> ANYWAY
> 
> Someone mentioned to me a joke post about what if Night Vale is actually a super normal town and Cecil just drops hard acid and spits a stoner's jam into the microphone for a half hour and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.  
> I'm gonna let you know that if you DO decide to keep reading- because I'm out here making my own dreams come true there's going to be lots of drug use, incest, Cecil/Kevin, Cecil/Earl this whole thing is going to be an awful rollercoast ride through the desert with no brakes.

_ A friendly desert community. Where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. _

 

_ Welcome to Night Vale. _

 

The big red flashing ‘On Air’ sign puts the radio station- no, the whole town in a state of serene quiet out of respect and interest. Cecil Palmer has been running this radio show for a few years now, just as everyone always predicted he would.

 

>   
>  “That boy’s been obsessed with radio since he could start pushing buttons,” Old woman Josie recalls fondly to anyone that doesn’t ask. “I gave him his first tape recorder you know. It was nothing big just an old thing from an old flame of mine. She was a journalist, always had a recording something or other lying around. I thought he’d have fun with it.”  
> 

 

Night Vale certainly was a lovely and friendly desert community. The place was quiet and bustling with activity, though it rarely attracted outsiders. They lived out in the desert after all, and it wasn’t terribly notable anything that happened out in the desert. But those who found and made their home here were reluctant to leave. “Everyone’s so close knit. It feels like they’ve been here forever,” Josie would interject yet again.

 

Today things were different though. The air was disturbed, someone was moving about instead of listening to the heralded show that has certainly spread through town as one of their own little wonders. A man by the name of Carlos- 

 

_ He says he is a scientist. Well- we’ve  _ all _ been scientists at one point or another in our lives. _

 

The radio also narrates as Carlos is moving the last of his boxes carefully from one of the old trucks he was able to rent from a few residents. These were for his new place of residence in the town. He’d finished unpacking his lab last week. He’d been told to listen to this radio show as it comes highly recommended by everyone in town. Really, that’s the only thing they talk about.

 

>   
>  “It’s like a gossip corner, except it’s fun for everyone and not like… cliquey and exclusive,” A girl from Dark Owl Records was saying as she chewed a piece of gum and searched for the correct way to describe it. “Like I’ve been in those groups in high school where you like sit around and talk about people. But when Cecil does it it’s just plain stupid. I think that’s what really makes it fun. You never know what you’re gonna hear,” She goes back to flipping through the pamphlet listing of top 40s while scowling, “I can’t believe people are still listening to this garbage.”  
> 

 

The scientist was hardly interested in putting things away in drawers when he could be setting up his lab. He knows he’s not actually going to end up doing that either, only grabbing things as he needs them until the place is a mess of half empty boxes and scattered beakers and buzzing devices. He’s already sitting in his car, the idea of pacing an apartment stacked with work he doesn’t feel like doing at the moment just a tad daunting for the evening. So he figures he’ll tune into the radio. 

 

_ The local chapter of the NRA is selling bumper stickers as part of their fundraising week. They sent the station one to get some publicity. And we’re here to serve the community, so I’m happy to let you all know about it. The stickers are made from good, sturdy vinyl, and they read: _

 

**_Guns don’t kill people._ **

**_It’s impossible to be killed by a gun._ **

**_We are all invincible to bullets and it’s a miracle._ **

 

_ Stand outside of your front door and shout “NRA!” to order one. _

 

The man chuckles to himself. Okay, so the show is a little ridiculous, but certainly amusing.

 

_ Carlos and his team of scientists warn that one of the houses in the new development of Desert Creek, out back of the elementary school, doesn’t actually exist. _

 

“I never said that!” Carlos huffs at the missing audience. “Hey wait- maybe I should have brought a team of- wait wait wait.” Friendly and fun radio entertainment is one thing, but the man certainly didn’t spend more than 5 years in his field of study to have the good name of science besmirched like this. He figures he’ll just stop by the radio station and ask him to kindly leave him out of the show. He only just got here after all.

 

When he parks around the entrance to the station, there are surprisingly fewer cars than he expects. Upon inspection of the town he figures there’s plenty in walking distance, but the emptiness of the parking lot implies there’s only five people working here. When he steps inside, he only opens his mouth before the man sitting at the reception counter perks up. “Go right up,” he says, a blushing smile taking over his face. He wore a cute small metal pin on his lapel, upon closer inspection it read intern. The plate on his desk read ‘Jerry.’ Carlos stopped at having been recognized instantly, it took most of the fight out of him actually. “Cecil will be very happy to see you,” Jerry swooned and picked up an earpiece, pressing the button on the microphone.

 

“Mr- er. Sorry sir. Station management sir?” He began nervously, whoever was on the other line seemed to instill a great deal of fear in him. “I know sir,” He continues shakily, “But! But its Carlos! He’s here! I’m sending him up now.” He takes the earpiece out again quickly, presumably before he can get yelled at and points Carlos to the elevators. “Oh sorry,” He says after a moment, failing to elaborate, “First floor- oh, you’ll see it. Cecil will be so happy to see you.” He waves with a grin full of an emotion Carlos can’t quite place. Nor is he sure why it makes him so nervous all of a sudden. Instead he just follows the instruction, now that his arrival has been officially heralded.

 

When he steps into the elevator, he pauses before pressing the button. There’s a sticker taped over it. Or, kind of around it. It makes the button look like an eye. Weird, but kind of endearing? He presses it, adjusting his lab coat and nervously running fingers through his wavy hair. He needs a haircut, it’s getting thick and hard to manage again. He’ll look into that soon, only wishing he’d done it before he moved but he hadn’t had the time.

 

The elevator ride is predictably short, and when he steps off he’s nearly forgotten why he came here in a huff in the first place. A smooth voice fills his ears, and as he rounds the corner he can see the man behind the radio show. His voice is even more enticing in person. Behind the glass he gets a glimpse into where the magic happens. The desk inside is neat and the ‘On Air’ sign flashes in neon red above the door. The man himself, tall and rather well built for someone that talks into a microphone all day, drapes over the desk and leans into the production microphone like a lover. Carlos finds himself walking forward instinctively, but he’s stopped by a hand and an interested but ultimately unimpressed face. Carlos can’t say he’s seen him around before, but he would be lying if he said he remembered most of the people he’s passed in town.

 

The warm welcome was given by a taller man, he looks strikingly similar to the other behind the glass- Cecil was his name? Caramel skin, brighter golden hair compared to the platinum blonde of his partner, though not natural if the dark hair of his undercut was anything to go by. He looked down at Carlos with a shark-like grin that made him take a step back for fear of his personal safety. “You’re certainly adorable. But all visitors have to wait until the break if you want to talk to Cecil. We’re live after all.” With that he stepped away to lean against his own booth- or Carlos supposed it was an office. All offices looked like booths around here. The glass was frosted, but the door was open. It read ‘Station Management’ in big block letters. It looked horribly messy in there. Papers scattered with no organization and multiple cups and cans and bottles of various kinds of drinks on every surface and staining everything with condensation and whatever their contents may be. Carlos catches his eye again as he inspects the place and gets a raised eyebrow in return, almost daring him to comment on it. He does not, instead adjusting his lab coat and fiddling with his hair again. His focus drifts back to the smooth voice broadcasting all over town.

 

_ Carlos and his scientists at the monitoring station near Route 800 say their seismic monitors have been indicating wild seismic shifts-- _

 

Oh right, that’s why he was here. His shoulders tense and his attitude flares at the blatant misreporting of information. “What I  _ said _ was that the town sits on a huge fault. So it’s odd that no one here has reported any kind of seismic activity even though there was supposedly a huge earthquake reported in the area just last month!”

 

_ To put it plainly, there appears to be catastrophic earthquakes happening right here in Night Vale that absolutely no one can feel. _

 

“Ugh, that’s not--”

 

_ Well, submit an insurance claim anyway. See what you can get, right? _

 

His words are cut off by the laugh that falls out of him. Okay, he can’t really stay mad at that. It is just for entertainment. Even if it is a blatant fabrication of factual scientific knowledge. Carlos sighs, no longer in the mood to pick a fight. Instead he just enjoys the show from where he stands. And since he’s made it all the way here, he might as well introduce himself. Especially if he’s going to be a regular feature on this silly show. Speaking of which he’s now looking at the couple others bustling around. The two people that keep jogging back and forth in front of the little hallway Carlos stands waiting in keep looking over at him, quick sharp glances before averting their eyes. They’re all wearing ‘Intern’ pins. They all have the same look Jerry downstairs gave him. That weird nervousness was rising in him again, and it wasn’t sitting well with the way Mr. Station Management kept a smug eye on him. He didn’t feel like he was being watched, he felt like he was being appraised. He wanted to ask what was going on, but it was hardly scientific to base a nature of thought off of a strange implied hunch.

 

Okay, that’s entirely scientific, but it’s not very polite. He starts to fidget nervously in place, but Cecil says something about the weather and his companion perks up with interest. “That’s my cue,” he turns and heads back into his own booth office and taps away at the laptop set precariously on a stack of letters. The two interns pause on either side of the door as the ‘On Air’ sign dulls to a low glow and a song begins to play. Cecil finally looks up from the microphone he was falling into and his eyes meet Carlos’ immediately.

 

> “Now, heart eyes aren’t biologically possible,” Carlos will explain at a later time. Much much later and likely hand in hand with Cecil himself. “I mean, sure our eyes are structured to reflect our mood so there are often nearly imperceptible changes the body employs that translate pretty well. But when I walked into the station that day, the way Cecil looked at me I can  _ only _ describe as pure unabashed ‘heart eyes’ and I have never seen anything like it before. Or since.”

 

And suddenly, every intern’s face made sense. “Oh dear,” He muttered, hand scratching at the back of his neck as it’s much too late to leave now. But not too late for at least a few regrets. None of which he had time to reflect on because the man stands up and trips over himself to get out of the door and over to him. He looks like he’s going to hit the ground with every step and Carlos rushes forward to shorten the distance between him and hopefully catch him if he does start to go down. When he rights himself there’s a pause of silence, likely only awkward on the smaller scientist’s end as Cecil face is alight with unabashed awe and joy. 

 

He seems to sway a bit in place, Carlos notices as he looks up at him. He’s definitely not what he expected a radio host to look like. Matching caramel skin with Senior Station Management, who has yet to resurface from behind the frosted glass, and lighter blonde hair combed over and looking very neat and presentable. He wears a vest and rolled sleeves and-- oh.

 

“You’ve still got your tag C,” The man exits from behind Carlos and he’s equally startled and grateful to look at something else. Anything other than the elastic tied tight around his bicep and the faded pockmarks. Station Management slips next to Cecil and pats his face not too lightly. He also undoes the elastic. “How ya feelin’?” He asks, grin still sly and dangerous. Cecil just smiles dreamily and replies with a soft “45,” absently swatting his hand away. “Oh!” He perks up, remembering Carlos came to visit him, “Oh Carlos! I’m Cecil erm Palmer. Welcome to the radio station. It’s sooo nice to have you on the show,” He swoons. Suddenly his hands grasp at his wrist and pull him into the booth, door still ajar. Carlos flinches but is dragged along, worrying about the mess of needles or drugs or who knows what else he’ll find, but it’s very clean. Still. Neat and orderly as it had been when he walked in. “Come in,” Cecil’s saying, “I can set up a chair and get you- We can do an interview. About how you’re liking it in town and-” He grabs at a pen on his desk, messily jotting it down on the scientists hand. His grip isn’t forceful, but certainly excited. Carlos feels a shudder run through him and pulls away as soon as he can manage. His phone begins to ring and he thanks the heavens above for the excuse to get out of there. “I- I have to go. Time, l-look at the time. Sun’s setting, I have to head home. Please stop featuring me on the show.” He bows his head and rushes out quickly. The station falls to intense quiet, a stunned lapse falling over everyone aside from Cecil who just smiles and waves him away. “Call into the station sometime if you ever change your mind.” The interns exchange pained glances, but the show starts soon and everyone clears out to return to their tasks.

 

Carlos sits in his truck, gripping the phone call he didn’t answer. He didn’t mean to be so… weird about it. But he doesn’t know how to handle these kinds of things well. He probably sounded so harsh. He hurriedly turns on the radio, expecting to be filled with burning shame at how awfully he treated Cecil. The whole town is going to hear about how he snapped at the town’s beloved radio host and-

 

_ Carlos, perfect and beautiful, came into our studios during the break earlier but declined to stay for an interview. He had some sort of blinking box in his hand covered with wires and tubes. Said he was testing the place for “materials.” _

 

Oh. He’s overreacting. Again. Like he does with everything that doesn’t have an explicit scientific process to follow. He sighs and slumps back in his seat, just listening to Cecil’s lovely voice say goodnight to Night Vale. When the show finally ends, he sits up and heads back home. He’s still surrounded by all his boxes, so he makes a halfhearted attempt to unpack to escape the awkwardness of today by listening to today’s show from the beginning. And a few other episodes if he can manage it. He’s hardly through the first ten minutes when-

 

_ And I fell in love instantly. _

 

“Oh dear.” He groans feeling worse than ever. Needless to say, it doesn’t work. After he opens all the boxes, he curls up under his lab coat on the coach and slips into a dreamless sleep. About mysterious lights, and smooth voices.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kind of boring chapter where Carlos does some introspection. But not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flirted with the idea of Carlos not being the narrator of the time, but I haven't built up any other perspectives so until I can swing a new angle I like we have more of this.

It’s been a couple of weeks now. Apparently the show airs on the first and fifteenth of every month. When Carlos had awakened the next morning, the residual regret hit him when he awoke and looked at the number still hastily jotted in pen on his hand. Upon transcribing it onto a more permanent piece of paper that he put on his fridge, kind of off to the side so he knew it was there but didn’t have to look at it because it was just outside of his actual field of vision whenever he wanted eggs for breakfast.

 

Oh yeah, he wanted eggs for breakfast. He pushes himself up and looks over the layout of his small living room. Still sleeping on the couch he is. But he’s taken an actual blanket out of one of his numerous half unpacked boxes. The desert gets awful cold at night. Tossing the blanket over him he shuffles into the kitchen and rifles through the fridge. There’s not much inside since he’s a single man living alone and spends most of his time near a lab kind of across town next to a convenient and pretty good pizza place. “No one does a slice like Big Rico,” Carlos mutters, but Cecil’s voice echoes in his head. He winces at the thought, it’s been plaguing him when he has time to pause and think about it. Maybe he should say something to him.

 

He just gets distracted with his work mostly, though he doesn’t disappear inside his lab as much as he would like to. Still the odd travel through the small town hasn’t really afforded him any extensive local contact unless he’s doing idle errands. Today he just decides to walk to his lab instead of driving. He’ll be picking up his own car soon, also maybe he’ll bump into Cecil? Maybe he’ll bump into anyone? He certainly can’t show his face back at the station and, in sudden reflection he’s realizing he’s never seen anyone that was in the station… Outside of the station.

 

He’s been getting more side glances from people along the street as Cecil’s next show was coming up, though people were polite enough not to tease him about it.

 

Everyone except the kind yet ever-present Old Woman Josie who always seemed to be nearby. Today she was flanked by a tall- a very very tall- darker skinned woman. Darker than Carlos himself who normally wouldn’t have described his skin as dark but merely having the typical pigment of someone of Latino descent, but now he never will consider it again. She looked down at the scientist and smiled a bright smile that warmed a part of him despite always feeling like he was walking around in a town of giants. “I’m Erica,” She introduced in a voice so sweet he forgot to shake her hand, just stunned into silence. Josie was there to knock him out of it as she continued on about “Cecil’s such a sweet boy, you should really go talk to him. What with his mother and all he could really use a good sturdy friend in his life. I wonder whatever happened to that redheaded kid he used to hang out with all the time.” She sounded as if she were talking about a teenager and not a man of at least 25. Her voice trails as she tugs Erica along by the hand who waves still wearing a smile and Carlos shakes out of his stupor so he can go back to taking sand samples and strange plants back to his lab for analysis.

 

The day goes by in a blur. Mostly because he falls asleep at intermittent periods setting up control samples for the tests he’s doing and the data he’s gathering. When he snaps awake for what must be the fifth time, he looks over the way the water sifts through the shifting sands with a soft, yet absent “Oh” making a note and setting the pen down. Later he’ll realize he just jotted that on the table and not on any actual piece of paper but the first thing running through his mind is the haircut he didn’t get when he said he was going to. The second thing is the radio show that seems to have its arrival announced even on the winds as the town all similarly settled into a routine expectation. There’s certainly no harm in following suit, Carlos supposes, with a time honored tradition. He doesn’t actually have a portable radio, so he jogs down to Big Rico’s pizza next door and orders a slice to sit in and eat.

 

_The desert seems vast, even endless, and yet scientists tell us that somewhere, even now, there is snow._

 

_Welcome to Night Vale._

 

There he is, right on time. Carlos taps his foot and slows the pace of his munching on the single slice. He’s not sure what he’s listening for, but certainly not entertainment. Maybe Cecil really did take his words harshly and he’ll be another Apache Tracker in town- which he did a bit of looking into to see if the guy actually existed. Turns out he does, but he’s been so socially ostracized it’s hard to really get a glimpse of him. Or at least, that’s what Big Rico told him since that’s the only person he’s actually been talking to of his own volition.

 

Carlos relaxes as he listens to Cecil talk on about the Glow Cloud moving in. He absently wonders if it will conflict with the lights above the Arby’s, and then mentally questions himself for following some weird plot in this show that doesn’t exist. Turns out Cecil’s voice is just really relaxing to listen to. Like something you’d listen to curled up by the fire, or just conversing about his day, or -- man he needed to get his own radio. He quickly looks up to see if there’s any indication he’s going to be ushered out soon, he’s one of the few people in here after all. But there’s no surly looking person coming to ask him when he’s going to get going, so he relaxes again. By the end of it, he realizes he hasn’t been sitting around as long as he assumed, but at the same time it feels like no time has passed at all. The weather passes, Carlos chuckles, and starts to toss his plate away.

 

_But, and I’m going to get a little personal here, that’s the essence of life, isn’t it?_

 

_Sometimes you go through things that seem huge at the time, like a mysterious glowing cloud devouring your entire community. While they’re happening they feel like the only thing that matters, and you can hardly imagine that there’s a world out there that might have anything else going on._

 

Carlos pauses, not in the anxious fear that was waiting for his tactless comments to get exposed. But in an anxious fear that one gets when someone is talking about you, but you’re not sure if they’re talking about you. Because they have very good reason to be talking about you, but you’re not even sure if they actually know enough to talk about you.

 

You know that kind of anxious fear? When you’re probably getting vagued but you’re not sure.

 

_And then the Glow Cloud moves on. And you move on. And the event is behind you. And you may find that, as time passes, you remember it less and less. Or absolutely not at all, in my case._

 

_And you are left with nothing but a powerful wonder at the fleeting nature of even the most important things in life – and the faint but pretty smell of vanilla._

 

He stands there an contemplates the lesson for longer than he intends to. He’d been so worried about the things he said. His own inexperienced notions about drugs and subsequently people that partake in them. About how he might have jumped to conclusions. About how he may still be jumping to conclusions. About how he’s doing a lot of jumping and still not reaching a lot of conclusions. So it’s probably best for him to just let it go. At least until he can actually work up the nerve to really say something to the guy. Cecil doesn’t seem to hold any ill will against him (he doesn’t think) and no one else has mentioned it aside from Josie and her well meaning suggestions. Yeah, he can just start over, take it slow and let the nervousness wash over him like water under a bridge. ‘Yes,’ he thinks to himself with a resolute nod, ‘I can do this.’

 

He takes a step outside the pizza parlor and looks over at the radio station. And then with a breath of determination he--

 

Turns and walks back to his lab.

 

It was a nice thought at least.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I was going to combine these next two chapters but upon editing I realized it was eight pages long.  
> So  
> I didn't do that.

Carlos was finding that when he listened to more of the radio, as everyone else in Night Vale, that he found himself participating in the mundane aspects of the silly show. As everyone else in Night Vale.

 

At the moment his research consisted of nudging rocks and studying the skittering things that crawled out from underneath them. With camera in hand he snapped pictures for record to print and document later. In the midst of inspecting a fantastic looking lizard, he felt a hard swat on his back. With a jolt he nearly dropped his camera and turned around, ready for a full on confrontation. What he saw instead was a little girl, cute with pigtails and wearing her Girl Scouts sash proudly, though it was over her school dress instead of the rest of the uniform. She was beaming, braces glinting in the desert sun, holding a catalog of stickers, red and blue, and sitting in a wheelchair. The red were mostly gone.

 

“Um…” He pauses, really not sure what to say. She looks so proud of herself. “Hi can I help… you..?”

 

“Hi Mr. Carlos!” Her grip on the stickers tightens.

 

“Actually, you can call me Dr.-” 

“Uncle Cecil says Sunday is Dot Day." She's already speaking again. "Red dots on what you love, blue dots on what you don’t!” It’s then Carlos remembers the show from earlier this week.

 

“Oh right, of course,” He laughs, mentally drawing the connection between the little girl and her uncle that works at the radio station. “Is that why you..?” He pulls at his lab coat to see the red dot now stuck to his back.

 

“You get a red dot! Uncle Ceci likes you, so I like you too!” The declaration makes him blush and he smiles politely.

 

“Thank you,” he laughs again. She waves and starts to wheel away.

 

“Make sure not to mix them up! And give Uncle lots of red stickers!!” Carlos watches her until she turns the corner. The town must be nice if an elementary school girl like her can just roam around like that. Maybe she’s also something of a celebrity. He wishes he knew her name. He’ll ask Rico later; but now he’s interested in going to pick up a sheet of stickers for himself.

 

He starts to dismiss the notion as childish until he sees spatterings of red and blue marks all along Night Vale. As he continues to tour, it seems that it’s become quite the town phenomenon. “Well there’s no harm in it,” He says, still feeling silly as he stops by Ralph’s to pick up a couple sheets of glittery colored dots. He also gets a few more red dots on his sleeves as he passes people in town. Two from Old woman Josie and Erica. Four from people he didn’t quite know, including the Ralph’s cashier, now that he’s become probably the closest to a local celebrity. And one from Big Rico himself. His coat seems to be the perfect canvas for them.

 

The stickers stay up for a couple of days. Predictably, nothing happens on Sunday. But it’s fun to see the whole town participating in something so silly and inconsequential. Or perhaps inconsequential isn’t the right word.

 

The show tends to bring about many consequences Carlos never would have thought to record. Touring town he notices a great number of red dots lingering on Big Rico’s Pizza Parlor that the owner only idly scrapes off when he enters or exits the place. Since then the place has increased its traffic. He also saw a lot of blue dots on the post office. He.. wasn’t sure why actually, at first believing it to be tied to the radio show he heard the first night he came in with the weird screaming from the Post Office since that’s his only consistent source of information. (There are local papers, but he’s not interested in cluttering up his already cramped spaces with material he won’t actually read so much as parse leisurely out of curiosity.) Upon closer inspection though, not long after Dot Day, said Post Office closed for renovation and management changing.

 

Apparently there had been dissatisfaction with the treatment of workers and the careless loss of mail for a while now. Interesting. The silly radio show did a lot more good than expected for being mere town entertainment. Carlos was taking more notes on the progress of society based around one man’s sole decision to dope up in front of a widespread audience as he wandered. Even though he was supposed to be keeping track of today’s calm weather patterns compared to the rain he’d been expecting. Suddenly he came to a dead stop.

 

Barber.

 

Haircut. He’s been putting it off for a whole month now and it’s really starting to show when he washes his hair and it’s nothing but sand. Determined to not be distracted any longer, Carlos ducks in for a cut. As much as he wants to cut it all off, he’ll settle for keeping the last few inches. The curls will be back. They always come back. But until then he’ll settle for dealing with one thing at a time. And that one thing will _not_ be the thick tangled mess on top of his head.

 

As soon as he takes a seat in the comfortably reclined chair, already hoping not to have to make casual conversation, he hears a familiar voice from an old crackling radio somewhere behind him in the shop.

 

_I myself was frozen, sure that any movement would lead to death; that any word would be my last._

 

“Oh is that today?” He hums absently, maybe he should just put a reminder in his phone so he doesn't forget. It already seems to have started and he laments what wonders he may have missed.

 

_Also, I’m battling Lyme disease._

 

Yeah- like that.

 

Now that he knows how integral it is to town proceedings, it’s only natural for him to wonder what kind of city-wide activity he’ll be succinctly confused about if he manages to miss the show. Besides, it has been something he finds himself looking forward to in the month. Ten minutes later he catches his name above the careful shearing. He’s stopped listening for it with bated anxiety, though that may have been a premature response he now realizes.

 

 _Two hawk-eyed listeners sent in reports that Carlos, our curious scientific visitor, was seen getting his beautiful,_ beautiful _hair cut. He was having his gorgeous hair_ shorn _!_

 

“God dammit,” Comes the instinctive swear under his breath as he sinks lower in the chair, not even worried about what that might do to the shape of his trim. He could see eyes peering into the window as they passed, few people even stopping to stare. Worrying he’s going to find his actual death here, he squeezes his eyes shut and continues to sink low beneath the special blanket they try to give that’s supposed to catch all the stray hairs cut.

 

_Listeners, I am not one to gossip even if it is a local celebrity, but please explain to me why Carlos would strip away – decimate! – any part of his thick black hair…not to ignore the dignified, if premature, touch of gray in the temples._

 

“The what?” He sits up sharply and turns to the old standing radio behind him. The barber behind him nearly drops the buzzing razor he was using. “I have to go,” Panicking words are spoken through a deep, not at all calming, breath. Of course, he can’t actually leave with one side of his hair severely shorter than the other side. But he can’t sit through another five minutes of eerie eyes on the other side of the large window staring mockingly from the street.

 

_It is Telly the Barber at the corner of Southwest 5th Street and Old Musk Road, with the red and white spinning pole and the sign that says, "Telly’s.”_

 

A hand sets on Carlos’ shoulder as he tries to shuffle off the large barber blanket draped over him. He wants nothing more than to go home and never be seen again, but he chances a glance up at the man grinning down at him with an apologetic, but otherwise encouraging look.

 

_Telly is about 5'9" with a small mustache and a thick pot belly._

 

He can’t be taller than 5’7. He has a large beard and mustache combo, striking red to match his thick short hair. And definitely a bit chubby all around,

 

_He talks with an accent and sneers._

 

He’s got kind eyes. Definitely the most comforting thing Carlos can witness in the midst of his budding panic attack.

 

_Telly the Barber cut Carlos’s beautiful hair. According to reports._

 

Cecil really is just talking out of his ass, huh. Without further ado, he turns his patron’s chair away from the window and prying eyes, even going as far as to drop the shudders a tad. It makes the place a little darker, but Carlos relaxes. The slandering of his business he seems to be taking in stride, maybe it’s happened before. At least the subject doesn’t seem to come up again. Maybe after this he’ll just go home and hide. Even still, he can’t seem to regret the decision. Especially after he stands and admires himself in the mirror.

 

Despite all his squirming, Telly- as Carlos reads the window and his nametag does in fact say- salvaged the cut and he enjoys it. Short on the sides and still a bit of curl in the front. It looks really good.

 

“Thank you so much,” Though it sounds like a plea for forgiveness as he pays for it, “I’m really sorry to um…” Carlos hardly knows how to reference it, but Telly waves him off before he has to. “Don’t worry about it, really. I think it is kind of funny actually,” The man says. With an accent. Some strange dulled Russian that almost sounds French? Who knows, Carlos can’t quite put his finger on it.

 

Out of fear that the shop will not be standing here tomorrow due to public outrage, Carlos hands over an extra $15 on top of the original price and hurries back home. He doesn’t run into anyone that seems interested in stopping him to talk, with the exception of Old woman Josie but he already expected that. She was again flanked by her large female friend. They both seem busy, but Josie tells him how nice he looks as he passes making him feel slightly better. Finally closing the door, and the world, behind him for the night he finds the radio was left on last time he left. His haircut finished up in the midst of the current weather.

 

The show is rampant with betrayal, but Carlos feels the need to finish listening anyway. Just a lot of weird reverb and strange background noises as Cecil panics into the microphone. Do they stage these shows? He’s not sure. It sounds at least a little staged, then he thinks back to “Station Management” that he met when he visited the radio station. More questions. No answers. Oh well. It’s time to wash his hair again, now a hassle free process, and then debate whether or not he wants to try and get back to his lab under the cover of darkness and camp out there to wait out the embarrassment of being seen in the day’s public. The show had given him a craving for pizza and if he didn’t get back to his lab he’d never get any work done. Even more questions. Still no answers. Time to shower.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode 3 part two

The door slams open. And then it slams shut. It's a wonder it didn’t pick up on the radio, the On Air sign is on after all. Another door slams open. Frosted glass rattles and it seems to get even Cecil’s attention in his little office. Booth. Anyway.

 

_Here at the radio station it’s contract negotiation season with the station management again!_

 

His misplaced cheer gets the attention of the well dressed man now standing in the doorway looking like he wasn't in the mood for games. His clothes look better than he does however. His eyes are sullen, like he's been up all night but also like he's going to throw up. Or fall over. Either way he shouldn't be here. He shouldn't have the energy to be intimidating, but the underlings at the Night Vale Community Radio Station know better.

 

_That’s always an interesting time. Now, obviously, I’m not allowed to go into details, but negotiation is tricky when you’re never allowed to glimpse what you’re negotiating with._

 

The blonde's typically passive interest is replaced with a mischievous grin. He certainly knows what he's doing, provoking him. The interns have paused in frozen fear trying not to incur more wrath than necessary. “Looks like _Station Management_ is in one of their moods again today,” One laughs a bit to the other, equal parts mocking and nervous, trying to lighten the mood. A shuffling comes from behind the slightly translucent glass. A grunting heave of a heavy stack and lots of fluttering papers. Suddenly the attitude is quickly replaced by panicked shuffling as the two of them rush to find something to do. Something that isn’t stand in his way as he steps down the carpet tile, hands folded tightly in front of him with a forced smile on his face. With his new, more pallid, demeanor he looks even creepier than usual. Like skin stretched much too tight over bones that are much too sharp.

 

_Station management stays inside their office at all times, only communicating with us through sealed envelopes that are spat out from under the door like a sunflower shell through teeth._

 

The smile doesn't last as he gazes through the glass window, a calm and even display that masks rising anger. His arms fold across his chest, but he raises a hand. A finger. And flips him off.

 

_Then, in order to respond, you just kind of shout at the closed door and hope that management hears._

 

That’s enough of that. He turns on his heel and stalks back to his office-booth. Papers shudder and crunch underfoot as he trudges through whatever fell earlier. There were bigger things to do than clean up it seemed. Cecil remained smugly and safely inside his booth, protected by the On Air sign of his current broadcast.

 

_Sometimes you can see movements through the frosted glass, large shapes shifting around, strange tendrils whipping through the air._

 

Until his partner stalks over and towards the door separating him from the rest of the world in this moment.

 

_Architecturally speaking, the apparent size of management’s office does not physically make sense given the size of the building, but it’s hard to say, really, as no one has ever seen the actual office – only its translucence._

 

He certainly wouldn't risk the sanctity of the show for petty revenge, right? Cecil drones on, eyeing him without any real sense of danger. Heavy footsteps are silenced by the lack of laminated flooring, but it doesn’t take a watchful eye to know the sight of someone throwing their weight around.

 

_Look, I’ve probably said too much._

 

By now it’s too late for him to backtrack, Cecil is realizing as his partner breezes past the door with no signs of stopping.

 

_I can see down the hall that an envelope just came flying out._

 

He stands above the desk and fishes a syringe out of his shirt pocket. The pump is already filled with a swirling liquid with a tar-like consistency. It’s a deep red, almost black, but decorated with flecks of glittering purple that swirls into the mix. The pump isn’t even half filled, but Cecil shrinks away from the sight anyway.

 

_I pray it’s not another HR retraining session in the Dark Box._

 

The Voice of Night Vale shudders over the microphone and turns away from the opposing figure, scooting towards the end of the table in his rolling office chair as if that would afford him a significant distance. It's hardly a deterrent, he just leans over the desk, sneering with disgust and grabbing at his free hand. Cecil tugs away, pushing back further until he’s against the wall, but still too close for his liking in the tiny studio.

 

_But what can I say? I’m a reporter at heart. I can’t not report._

 

It's a last ditch plea, feeble at best before his microphone is grabbed. More reluctant to let go than to endure whatever punishment comes his way, he concedes. The needle finding just the right spot with the practice of someone very familiar with the process, but with the force of fed up irritation behind it. Cecil grabs at his wrist on reflex, but it’s done. His vein pulses beneath the skin, blue blood glowing purple in the neon light and brightening to harsh violet through the caramel skin as it crawls through him as though it were a living creature. His hand shakes on the microphone, but his grip doesn’t falter.

 

_Oh, my…._

 

It would take a few minutes to hit. To really hit. But it was never made for repeated usage in such quick succession. Well, it’s not really supposed to be used at _all_ but it’s effects are **_certainly_ ** not supposed to be stacked like so. Cecil sinks back in his chair, eyes cast at the ceiling, blinking very slowly as he loses himself in his own world.

 

“If you're coherent enough to shit talk me on the radio then obviously you need some _help_ with your broadcast.”

 

Dear station management has since gone back to their office, suddenly in a much better mood- or so it seems with the carefree hum- though the door still slams behind them. An eerie chill echoes around the station, but the studio door has since closed so it only plagues those left to their work around here. The two interns peer out from their hiding spots still not feeling truly safe.

 

But a bit of time passes so they feel inclined to relax- if for no other reason than to ease away their own tension. Though they're certainly keeping their guard up, both of them hovering around an intricate board of flashing buttons.

 

None of the buttons are connected to the actual radio show, all of that being handled from the computer in Station Management’s office. The most use it gets is On/Off air control, but there is some remote lock access here as well as connection to the cameras set up around the ground floor to check for guests.

 

“Sorry you have to work overtime since Chad quit Jerry,” One intern says in a half whisper as he leans over the desk. He’s a bit smaller so he’s standing on his toes and tipping forward to be heard without alerting the predatory pacing behind frosted glass that they’re desperately trying not to watch.

 

“Oh is that what happened to him? I didn’t even see him leave. I’ve been downstairs at the welcome desk most often. Which is fine I guess, I don’t think Chad would have done it anyway. But I did want to stay up here with Cecil, even though his brother freaking hates me.” He rolls his eyes. The other tries to reassure him with a sheepish grin. “Yeah Chad didn't wanna do much so he was just sent on errands. But if it makes you feel better, I don’t think they like anybody. They… don’t even seem to like Cecil very much. I wonder why they’re even here-” Their conversation is cut short by the door opening yet again. They’re both ready to apologize for even mentioning him, but his gaze is directed over their heads, staring into Cecil's booth yet again.

 

_\--not…pleased with my discussion of their physical attributes and behavior and is now threatening to shut down my show – or possibly my life – for good._

 

“Is he still on this bullshit?” Comes the muted grumble. The stressed smile is gone leaving behind a tired twitch of anger, eyes holding no sympathy for the shivering host. He looks over at the booth and Cecil has since moved back to his desk, but he looks like he’s going to be just as sick. Skin that’s paled has gone shiny with sweat and thin tendrils of violet can be seen pulsing in his veins before disappearing just as quickly, snaking along through his system like an intricate maze. He’s huddled over the microphone, still gripping with a tight unrelenting force. He looks up sharply when he catches movement towards the studio door, making quick eye contact before both of them raced to it:

 

One trying to force in and managing to crack the door and the other tries to force him out, back pressed heavily against the light wooden frame.

 

_So if you like this show,_

 

He sounds breathless as he speaks, genuinely panicked and fearful.

 

_and you want to hear more of it,_

 

He has the microphone grasped in two hands now, holding it to his chest with desperate protection.

 

_then we need to hear from you. Make your voice heard to whatever it is that lies in wait behind that darkened office door._

 

Station Management steps backwards and gives up the battle against the door, startling Cecil as he falls back with a click and a soft

 

_Oh!_

 

A grumble, a soft huff, and a hair flip of indignation. He’s determined to win this war. Cecil can’t hide in that booth forever. And he’ll pay for slandering him on the radio.

 

_I’m sorry dear listeners. We’ll be back after this word from our sponsors._

 

His demeanor changes, Management paces, the interns wait to see how bad this will escalate.

 

Cecil loses himself in the ad about Big Rico’s Pizza, sinking to the ground steadily. In fact he starts to make himself hungry even though all the wording in his description was amusingly vague. In his distraction, Management is able to shoulder the door open, much to Cecil's sudden jolting shock. He scrambles to take cover under his desk, diving just out of reach of a threatening grab in time. A standing hiss spits something only Cecil can hear but as soon as he does Cecil cuts very quickly and panicked to the weather.

 

Management turns to look over his shoulder at the two interns that are doing their best to seem busy, twitching rage melting back to that knowing grin. “ _You_ weather, and _you_ cut the audio. I need to have a word with Cecil.” They quickly scatter to their appointed tasks, fear growing as they can only imagine what kind of conversation could possibly develop.

 

“I already _told_ you Cecil I have a headache," He's snapping, voice only slightly above a harsh whisper. He's leaning over the desk, scolding what looks to be the floor, as Cecil has cornered himself beneath the host desk and chair. "I don't want anything to do with your inane show on a _good_ day. So  _don't_ get people involved, understand?  _You_ were the one insistent on doing the show this evening and not tomorrow and I only agreed because I’m not the one that has to interact with the rest of this nosy little town. If I have to see a _single_ person outside of those here that I am already oh so regrettably forced to deal with--”

 

There’s a yelp from behind him, coming from the office with his laptop. “ _What_ are you doing over there?? I _told_ you to play the weather. _Why_ is that such a hard concept for you? Why is _everything_ so hard for you?? What are you doing, stop pushing buttons!” He forgot the threat he was delivering as he turns sharply to the intern mucking up his already ruined office.

_I come to you live from under my desk, where I dragged my microphone and am currently hiding in the fetal position._

_Did you write letters? Then you should not do this anymore._

 

Jerry is standing there awkwardly clutching the laptop, that must have fallen from the stack of letters and papers now fluttering around in air that feels more than dead.

 

“Get out.” Management hissed, swiping forward and tearing the shining intern pin from the collar of the boy and shoving him out of the door. The other, more fortunate, hired hand (though for how long remains to be seen) merely crouched behind the desk, trembling and waiting for it all to blow over.

 

_An intern went to see what management wanted and has not returned. If you are related to Jerry Hartman, afternoon board operator at Night Vale Community Radio, I am sorry to inform you that he is probably dead or at least corporeally absorbed into management permanently!_

 

Comes the panicked shaky voice of the man likely on the verge of a breakdown on live radio. The description may as well have been accurate enough, the way the door slams behind him causing both Cecil and the intern to shudder.

 

“Write your name on this,” Management returns with a voice significantly, but dangerously calmer, and drops something that heavily bounces off the shaking intern who groans out a note of pain and rubs the back of his head. It’s a plaque that still reads ‘Jerry’ so he does as told and scratches it out, jotting down a ‘Leland’ with an expo marker. Which is the closest writing utensil he can find. Meanwhile Cecil remarks his want to break for the door. Leland sees him peek over his desk and desperately wants to join him. He says goodnight to the city and a hand deftly finds the button to take the station off the air.

 

"Show's over," The words are deadpan and he helps Leland up with a gentle but commanding touch, "Get out. As for you," He shoos the intern towards the door without a second thought, "Ceciiiil," His voice trills in a tone that betrays his current less than healthy condition. At least now they seem to match, in the worst way possible.The man hasn't moved from beneath his desk, he's no longer making any noise but that may be because the embodiment of his current nightmare is calling his name.

 

"It's time to go Cecil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sure if this would have been better posted as one long chapter.
> 
> I guess you were gonna end up reading all 4000+ words anyway


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode 3 part three?

It takes the better half of an hour to pry Cecil out from under his desk. Five of those minutes were spent watching him suffer, but once the conscience catches up to the actions a change of heart and a soothing hand at least gets him to look up. 

 

"Kevin," the shakes are all but gone from his voice, it still sounds disbelieving and worried. The smooth voice, once so eloquent even in the midst of fearful panic starts to stutter between words and letters. 

 

"Save it," a hand raises and cups his face with a sigh before he can flinch away. The words are gentle and encouraging. Anything Cecil could have said he already knows, so further communication on the matter would be unnecessary. 

 

"Get up," the tone was a front, going back to demanding with a rough pinch of his cheek. “It’s late. We have to get going,” Cecil seems to need no more convincing because he’s sitting up. He hits head on the desk which affords his brother a small laugh before he crawls out, seemingly forgetting his prior struggle now that he was off air. 

 

Now that he has calmed and the world has stopped trying to swallow him whole, glazed eyes glance around. “Mother will be waiting up for us,” Cecil seems to perk up a bit, as if he’s just remembered something very important. Kevin walks alongside him, but isn’t impressed. “She absolutely will not,” He just huffs at his revelation and gently guides him towards the elevators by the elbow.

 

In a quick change of subject he taps his fingers along the skin to get his attention before speaking. 

 

“How you feeling?” There’s a genuine note in there. Somewhere. As if he hadn’t literally tried to poison him hours ago. 

 

“My blood feels like dead weight,” the younger answers honestly and slumps into his walk, leaning heavier on his brother for added effect. 

 

Kevin often found himself irrationally peeved by the fact that he and Cecil were so close in heights despite Cecil being a few years younger. He was also bigger. Which means heavier. He shoved at him with disgust as Cecil just laughed. “If you fall I’m leaving you here to walk home.”

 

The headache has dulled to a mere memory but he’s still not in the mood. 

 

“Hey,” that reminds Cecil enough to ask, just humming now as they step into the chilled desert night air. “Why do you look awful today?” 

 

The grip on his elbow tightens a bit. He knows he doesn’t mean it  _ like that _ . That doesn’t stop him from replying, 

 

“You look awful every day.” He just gets a hum in reply that falls to a lingering silence. Kevin knows Cecil’s not going to say anything more, besides he’s been meaning to vent about it anyway. “I had to clean up those needles earlier today, it was just the worst. A couple of them fell in the trash and jabbed me through the bag. I had to wait until I stopped swelling up like a balloon just to get ready to leave the house.” 

 

It was his own laziness that did it, Cecil’s always really good about keeping the needles to their own container. Cecil’s always really good about everything that’s why  _ he’s _ the golden child. But he refrains from mentioning as much.

 

"Did you really fire Jerry?" Cecil asks absently, quieter as if the decision wasn't quite set in stone.

 

"It's not really firing if we don't pay them. Now he can go do something more productive with his time. Besides he annoyed me. He's gone now. Really Cecil, you say yes to everyone that asks I feel like I'm running an elementary school."

 

The rest of the walk to the car is short but silent, Kevin opens the door for him to get in. Not to be nice, but knowing that if he didn’t Cecil would just stand there and stare at it like a dumbass. He also makes sure to strap him in. He didn’t care much about his own safety, but he was always sure to never harm a hair on his baby brother’s head. It’s why he was beyond ecstatic when Cecil picked up Bloodstone Circles as a regular hobby. Something that wasn’t his fault. Well not as much his fault as it could have been. Cecil started his own supposed ‘self-destruction.’ It may have gotten out of hand in the past few years, but now there’s a lot more at stake than just a pick-me-up on an off day.

 

Kevin drives from the station to the driveway of their house through sheer muscle memory. There aren’t many cars on the road at this hour- there’s not an exceptional nightlife here- so he’s not too worried about the ten minute drive he spent zoning out. Cecil has since fallen asleep in the passenger seat. Turning off the car, he takes a moment to stare at him, head tossed back and mouth wide open. 

 

Picturesque. 

 

What do people see in him anyway? Well, at least he doesn’t snore. 

 

“Wake up,” He swats his chest and scoots out, “I can’t carry you, you know.” 

 

There’s a noise of discontent and he turns over, trying to get comfortable. Kevin’s on the other side of the car, opening the door so the air hits him on both sides and he’s forced to sit up. 

 

“You’d bake alive in the morning if I let you sleep here,” Kevin muses, masking minute amusement. Cecil doesn’t care to be woken up, but he can’t really argue with that. He still stalls getting out of the car, head bobbing towards his shoulder, until Kevin’s smacking his arm again.

 

“Look Speakeasy, light’s off.” This means something specific to Cecil shown by how quickly he sits up.

 

“Really? Oh,” his voice is soft like a child and the buckle fumbles in his hand before he’s finally able to scoot out. He takes a step back to be sure, but looking all the way up to the top of the grand home is dizzying. There are three floors and the only light on is the one Kevin points out as the kitchen. “Mom’s awake.” 

 

Kevin looks over as he says it. It’s not going to change what happens next, but he’s always found it difficult to stop him once he gets like this. He always gets so excited when he talks about their mother. 

 

Something changed when he was born. Things were different for the eldest Abby, and second eldest himself, they knew how much their mother truly cared. The answer was little to none. But there Cecil goes, nudging inside the house. 

 

The door isn’t locked. As lavish as it was, no one would mess with the place even before they were relatively well known. Kevin just hears the heavy footsteps and occasional stumble on the stairs. Instead of sticking around to listen, he puts some distance between himself and his brother to fix something quickly in the kitchen. Stir fry is fine, it’s late and he can easily add leftover meat to his own. He’s careful to keep his brother’s meat-free. And takes both bowls upstairs, planning to eat in his room and just dropping the other off with Cecil who’s sitting at the top of the stairs, talking to a closed door.

 

“Oh-- I know I already told you this but I didn’t get to talk to you yesterday," Cecil is saying, hands planted beside himself as rocks with excitement. "Khoshekh? The cat that’s been coming around our station? Soooo cute. The other day he rubbed up against my leg purring, he's really warming up to the station. I know you don’t like cats but he’s really not that bad! I think you two would get along nicely. He’s super friendly. Oh thank you Kevin. And um- you remember when I told you about Carlos right? He’s new in town, I don’t know if you’ve got a chance to meet him yet. He got a haircut today! I was so upset! Now, I haven’t actually  _ seen _ the haircut. Or even talked to the guy. I’m sure it looks  _ good _ I don’t think he’d do anything that really looked bad. But I just really like his longer hair.”

 

He continues on, just recounting his whole day moment by moment. Kevin leans against the frame of the closed door to their room, listening to him ramble. It’s different than when he’s on the radio it’s more… sincere? No that’s not the right word. Unfiltered. Just a boy talking to his mom, hoping so much that she hears. That she says anything. But it’s always the same soft,

 

_ Click _

 

“--Oh goodnight mom. I’ll tell you tomorrow then.” No one else can hear the slight shatter of disappointment in his voice with the ‘on’ flick of the light. Still he swallows it down and joins Kevin for dinner in their room. In time the dismay is forgotten on Cecil’s part. So Kevin tries to let it be as well.

 

“You can talk to her too you know.” The smug  _ I know you listen _ isn’t said, but the implication is bad enough. Kevin manages a laugh, it’s hardly sincere. “I always eat dinner here. Food digests better when you eat standing up. Digests best when you eat upside down.” 

 

“That’s not true!” Cecil snaps back, but with the uncertainty of someone who can’t really be sure until he’s tried it. 

 

“Sure it is, it’s science. Go find Carlos and ask him,” There’s genuine contemplation in his next bite of food, but he shakes it off as more Kevin messing with him. “Besides even if I  _ wanted _ to talk to her I couldn’t get a word in with all your blabbing.” Cecil seems offended at the notion and shakes his head. 

 

“I can be quiet.” 

 

“You’re  _ always _ talking Cecil.”

 

“That’s ‘cause people like hearing me talk.” 

 

“Yes yes. Just gimme your bowl Mr. Voice of Night Vale.” Kevin collected dishes and brought them back downstairs to quickly wash them out in the sink. When he came back up, Cecil was huddled over a stack of papers bound by twine. 

 

“Reading those stupid things again?” 

 

“Mom wrote  _ books _ . Really interesting children’s horror. They're like bedtime stories. How is that not the coolest thing?”

 

“They’re not even real books. They never got published.”    
  


“ _ Manuscripts _ , sorry. But that just makes them sound fancier. Still that’s super neat-!” 

 

“Because she would never even talk to _us_ Cecil.” Kevin cuts him off harshly, nearly fuming, “What could she possibly have to say to the world that’s- Nevermind.” He quits while he’s ahead, not even chancing a look up at the confused or possibly even sad eyes he’s no doubt using. It’s not an argument to have while recovering from his Bloodstone allergy. Instead he just opts to change and go to bed, turning on the lamp on his side of the room and turning over to prepare for an unrelenting tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession to make I don't actually know what I'm doing I'm sorry. You're totally allowed to yell at me for this one.


End file.
